Beyond Reach
by petite etoile22
Summary: A Tragedy in Five Acts.
1. Act I: Fall

**This Fic is inspired wholly by Juliet Delta's (JulietD001) response to the Fan Video Challenge I gave her on the Spooks Information Forum. She created an amazing vid, so this is dedicated to her. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Spooks or its characters, they belong to Kudos and the BBC.**

**Please Read & Review.**

* * *

_People will say that the alcohol caused it all. Ros agrees that it came first, but it wasn't the beginning. Not even Adam's death was the beginning. Ros thinks the beginning came much later; or perhaps it didn't. Perhaps the beginning of it all was her very own beginning; her birth (predilection and all that). But for now, as she slowly chokes to death on her own vomit, Ros will concede that the alcohol did indeed come first, and that it was preceded by Adam being obliviated by six canisters of explosives and a trigger without a detonation code._

* * *

Ros sits in her safe house with a bottle of wine by her side. The service had refused her another night at the hotel when they saw the damage caused to her room. It's just a room; just like her house was just a house. Ros downs her glass in one, and pours herself another. She has the news on loop; watching the aftermath of the explosion over and over again. It's his funeral tomorrow but she won't attend, not even Harry can persuade her. She can't sit by and watch them lower an empty coffin, and speak of everlasting life when she knows what happened to him. She knows why the coffin is empty. It's empty because there isn't a body; Adam Carter the Hero merely became a mixture of bloody mist and ash. The thought of his complete and utter eradication terrifies her to the point of denial. Not just because she loved him, but because he had more presence than her. Adam had family and real friends; ties to this world that Ros could only wish for. He was noble; people noticed the change in his mental state and they cared. No one noticed her descent into treachery, no one noticed the daily wars that were fought daily in her mind. No, that's a lie. Adam did, and although it was too late to save her, he gave her a second chance. More than she ever gave him.

Ros unscrews another bottle; this time, vodka. She has quickly let go of wine opting for a stronger alternative; the burning of the spirit running down her throat is adequate enough to burn the memories and pain from her mind, albeit temporarily. It seems that nothing good in her life can last long.

* * *

The idea of fucking away the pain comes from Meynell; or to be precise, her experience with him. It's difficult to comprehend at first; how faint disgust can turn into a kind of ecstasy the moment her lips come crashing down on his. It's only when he slams her into a wall and she wraps her legs round his waist, that she realises the cause of it all; power. This powerful man is seemingly under her spell; she is in control. It is she that maintains the top position and watches him quiver in heated arousal beneath her. It is she who hears her name being called. Yet she's barely aware of these fact because the only thing running through Ros Myers's head is, 'Fuck You'.

Fuck you, world.

Fuck you, job.

Fuck you, Adam.

Fuck you for saving me.

Fuck you for dying.

Fuck you for leaving me behind.

Fuck you.

Turns out, that method of pain relief is also an effective way of saving the British economy. The success of the operation is a stark contrast to the feelings of self-loathing that are creeping in on her. She's doing quite well at keeping them at bay, then Jo comes along and opens the floodgates. It's the guilt on her face that gets Ros. The young girl feels guilty for doing what Ros would've done, has done (and worse). But that isn't the source of Ros's own guilt. No, she feels guilty because what Jo had taken from her in the worst possible way, Ros gave up without a second thought to get herself out of a 'tricky' situation at work. It takes all her will power not to collapse as she walks away.

It is only later that night, after a bottle of scotch (she's run out of vodka), that she realises that no amount of alcohol will cure this affliction. No, she has to do what she did with Meynell; she has to fuck it all away. She meets him in a bar, or on the street outside the bar, or perhaps just on the street. She's off-duty, and doesn't care much for details at this moment in time. Ros learns more about London's streets by navigating her way from various houses to the Grid at four in the morning, than she ever did in all her training as a lily-white. Ros thinks that between the alcohol and the random men, she doing a pretty good job at passing for normal. Then she wakes up in the arms of two men (neither of whom she remembers being the man she picked up in the bar), and finds that this morning the pain and the guilt haven't dulled. In fact, they are gnawing away at her sanity with pure abandon.

* * *

Ros Myers would like to believe that she is fine. She would like to believe that the persona she's so effectively portraying to the rest of the world, is how she's really feeling inside. But it isn't; and she knows that best of all. Ros sits at the kitchen table, staring at the pale brown powder before her. She done drugs before in her heyday at university, just none as hard as this. She knows people who have though; colleagues and friends who wanted to escape from the strain of the Service. One of them reached the point where he couldn't do an op sober. As she tips some of the fine powder onto a metal spoon, she vows she will never let herself get that bad. Besides, she's not using it to get through an operation, just to calm herself enough to get some semblance of sleep; it's a completely different situation.

Ros tells herself this while she watches the heated metal transform the powder into a liquid, while she fastens the silk scarf tight round her upper arm, and while she draws the amber liquid into the syringe, tapping it slightly on the tabletop to remove it of air bubbles. She only stops reasoning when she slides the needle point into her flesh. She no longer cares why she's doing it or if it's for the right reason, as long as it gives her the brief respite she so desperately needs. She depresses the plunger. Ros makes her way to the sofa with a lucid smile on her face, barely hitting the soft cushions before the full effects of the drug hit her. Her mind feels warm, and the tight pain in her chest, which has plagued her for weeks, seems to have disappeared all together. She is numbed to an extent that the alcohol could never hope to reach, no matter how many bottles of vodka or scotch she drank. Her last conscious thought that night is a determined one; she can never let this feeling escape her ever again.

She fallen, and _this _ is the beginning.

The beginning of her end.

* * *

_As Ros convulses on her kitchen floor, she fondly remembers that night, along with a saying her mother taught her as a child. 'The beginnings of stories are so much more exhilarating than their endings.'_


	2. Act II: Intervention

_Ros thinks she knew there was no God for her the day her mother died. At ten years old, the 'great' Rosalind Myers just sat and watched as her mother faded away; she was 36. It scared Ros to think that people who were so important, who were the sole reason for your very existence on this earth, could be so weak as well. Ros vowed then that she would never be so weak. Now, as she feels the unnatural cold slowly claw its way up her limbs, she thinks that she is weak. Because she's not fighting, and her mother did. That's the one other thing she remembers from that period of her life. The fact that although her mother fought so hard, it was never going to be hard enough. Her death was a failure. Ros thinks that not fighting will save everyone from feeling disappointed. She's tired of making people feel disappointed. She's tired of it all. She's so tired._

* * *

Ros knows what this is.

She knows what's happening now before her very eyes. She just can't believe that they would have the sheer audacity to do it to her. She hasn't run renagade, she hasn't betrayed anyone, she hasn't broken down on an op and forced a co-worker to risk their life saving her. Ros thinks that if Lucas weren't such a _spy_, and didn't always feel the need to _care_, they wouldn't be standing in the midst of such a stupid and offensive situation. Because she is offended; they should know her better. They should know that this is the last thing she would ever tolerate.

An intervention.

They dare to spring a fucking _intervention_ on her.

"Ros, I think it would be best if you took some time off."

"No." Her voice is cold, if only to keep the venom and affront from creeping in.

"Ros," Lucas cuts in, pained. "You need help."

"I would, if I actually had a problem."

"What about the alcohol?" he asks, choosing the safer option of the three.

"Lucas, everyone in this job has a high alcohol intake. What about Harry? Are you going to have him referred as well?"

An uncomfortable, yet final silence descends on the room.

"I'll take that as a 'no', shall I? I'll see you both tomorrow."

With that, she is gone. God only knows where.

Ros is livid, and the edge only wears of after half a bottle of vodka, and a line. She slips on her jacket and heads out to the nearest bar. She needs to forget all about to today and the intervention. She needs to feel in control again. She needs company; the touch of human skin on her own.

* * *

She doesn't feel like going out tonight. She's coming down from a particularly bad trip, and Adam seems to be filling most of her thoughts. Instead of feeling anger of grief, she just feels numb. She's gone back to the wine, but only because she ran out of vodka a couple of hours ago, and can't seem to get her brain to communicate to her legs that they should _move_. The only thought that seems to have any logical belonging to Ros is, 'It should've been me'.

It should've been her in that car.

After all, she was already dead, with a gravestone and everything. She's the legendary Ice Queen of Section D; she probably wouldn't have even felt the flames. Ros is about to conduct an experiment involving a lighter and her bare arm, when she's interrupted by a knock on the door. It takes several moments for her legs to move and she prays that whoever's on the other side doesn't decide to kick the door in; she doesn't thinks she cares enough to be bothered to call a locksmith right now.

Harry.

"What are you doing here?"

"I think we should talk. On neutral territory."

"If this is another-"

"I can assure you it isn't. I just want to talk."

She agrees, and is extremely relieved to find that this 'neutral territory' has a bar. She orders a large glass of house red, and fiddles with the glass stem in a bid not to down it all in one.

"You wanted to talk."

"Ros, I need you to tell me the truth."

"What's the question?"

"Ros..."

"Harry, what is the question?"

"Is it just the drink?"

"What?"

"Are you doing anything else, or is it just the drink?"

Ros opens her mouth to deliver one of her barbed rebuttals, but then closes it with a melancholy sigh.

"I'm going home Harry. I've got a long day tomorrow."

She finds that she just can't lie to him, not after all they've been through. Harry doesn't say a word as she stalks past him and out onto the London streets; he just stares at her empty wine glass.

Years later, Harry will admit that was the night he knew Ros Myers was another one of his who would die before her time. But tonight, he takes comfort in the fact that she didn't lie to him. At least she didn't do that.

* * *

Lucas lies awake in his flat, wondering where Ros is right now. His best guess would be in the arms of a random stranger, as much as he doesn't want that to be true. As high functioning as she may be, Lucas has learnt a lot during his eight years in prison. He knows a junkie when he sees one. Lucas suspects that Harry does too, but can't bring himself to admit it; the possibility that Ros - the _infallible_ Ros - could fall, and fall so very far indeed. His phone rings, and it's Harry.

"I spoke to Ros."

"And?"

"And, we were right. You were right."

"So what do we do now?"

"We watch her, and we do the best we can."

Lucas knows that they're not really watching. They're just waiting for the inevitable to happen. Because Ros Myers has made up her mind, and she is always one to follow her decisions through to the bitter end. Lucas freely admits that Ros will be dead before the year is out. A part of him feels guilty for wanting it to be of her own choosing. But he doesn't think Ros could bear such an utter loss of control.

He's right.

* * *

_Ros thought the cold would hurt, but it doesn't. No, what causes her the most pain, are the voices screaming her name with such despair. She wishes she could comfort them, but she's too far gone for such pleasantries now._


	3. Act III: Denial

_**I admit that this has been one of the most enjoyable stories I have ever written. I think it has something to with Juliet Delta's awesome videos which have been superb inspiration. So this is dedicated to her.**_

* * *

_Ros thinks that she had an excellent natural ability to make herself wholly deniable. Something that had annoyed her siblings at home, her peers throughout her educational career, and various foreign intelligence services. But what was really special about this ability, was the fact that she could make herself deniable even to herself; a twisted semi-paradox that somehow kept her sane. Now as the darkness creeps evermore into the centre of her vision, she can't help but wonder when the denial stopped and the dying began._

* * *

She knows they're keeping a close eye on her now. She's not angry, not really.

She tells herself that repeatedly when she's in the throes of drug-fuelled rage.

It becomes part of her routine; evading their 'interrogations'. Ros can see the frustration building up in their eyes, and it thrills her each and every time she does. She has an effect on them, therefore she means something; she exists. Ros ignores the pain in those eyes that inevitably follows; she denies its very existence. If she admits that she's hurting them, then she has to stop hurting herself. Ros doesn't think she's capable of doing that yet. Lucas pulls her aside and into a corridor just as she's about to go for 'lunch'. Truth be told, she stopped eating lunch weeks ago. She finds the easiest way to avoid confrontation, ironically, is to be hostile.

"What do you want Lucas?" Ros practically spits.

"You need to stop what you're doing. Now"

She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. Aside from when they're discussing work, this is how all their conversations tend to begin.

"Stop doing what?"

"Don't play games with me Ros. Can't you see that you're killing yourself?"

"I can't, actually. If I wanted to be dead, I'd be dead."

Lucas looks at her in something vaguely resembling shock or perhaps horror, Ros isn't sure. Her statement might be detached, it might be callous, but it's the truth; he knows it is.

"It's not your fault, none of it is. You're not the guilty party, not this time. You probably never really were. Just-just stop punishing yourself."

She pushes past him and bumps into Jo on her way to the pods.

"Are you going to lunch now?"

"Yes." Her tone is abrupt, but the young spook doesn't seem to notice.

"We all need a break. Well, have a nice time."

'Oh I fucking intend to,' she thinks as she storms out of Thames House.

* * *

She's taken to going to church before she uses sometimes. Ros thinks a part of her is testing God; daring him to send an epiphany bold enough to cure her of her affliction. He doesn't, and it only serves to reaffirm her belief that there is no God for her. But no matter how many times she sticks that sliver of metal into her flesh, she can't seem to kill that tiny part of her that still has faith. It's like she's watching a timer on a bomb that can never quite reach zero.

She knows she's a time-bomb of her own.

She denies the fact that her own timer is fast approaching zero.

Ros has a park bench. She finds she is very particular about where she wants to spend her time in the midst of a hit. She just sits and stares into space, relishing the fact that her mind is paralysed; a brief respite from the memories. When she has come down sufficiently enough to be sure that Harry will have to let her onto the Grid, she smoothes down her jacket and heads back.

She only realises that Harry and Lucas are following her, when Harry hauls her into his office and starts shouting about her 'sheer stupidity'. He's finally worked out that in a line of work that only gives you thirty minutes for lunch, an alley or underpass is more convenient than a gentleman's club or some such establishment.

"It was just the once." Ros is daring him to contradict her, to admit that he's been following her, that he no longer trusts his 'outstanding officer'.

"If you say so Rosalind, if you say so." Harry sighs.

* * *

Ros denies the fact that they've made it bloody nigh-on impossible for her to get a hit at lunchtime anymore. She gets so good that by the third time it happens, she can almost pretend that it is of her own choosing. Lucas is talking to her, but she can't hear a word he is saying. The only thing she can seem to focus on is the burning ache in her jaw and forearms; she really needs Lucas to shut up, she really needs a hit.

"... so what do you think we should do?"

_I think you should let me leave this fucking office._

"I think we need to get under his skin." She grunts out as a suggestion, all the while pulling and twisting at her lip in a futile bid to distract herself.

"I'll draw up a full profile then. No rest for the wicked, eh?"

_No fucking heroin for the wicked either, it seems._

It's not working.

"Nope." Ros replies, not bothering to hide the tense strain in her voice.

She denies the fact that these mini interventions just make her more desperate for a hit. Sometimes, she can stem the tide with vodka, but only sometimes. Besides, she always held the belief that going to work smelling of spirit was terribly unladylike. She ignores the fact coming to work whilst high on smack probably wasn't much better. But appearances are important to Ros. If you don't 'look' like you have a problem, then you can deny it. And if you can deny it, then you don't. That way, when the shit hit the fan, no one had to feeling guilty about not helping. She doesn't understand why they can't see that she's helping them in the long run.

* * *

The next time Harry calls her into his office, he's relatively passive in his stance. He seems to understand that force will not make her listen; not now, not anymore. Ros denies this is the case; she denies that she is so far gone that even if she wanted to listen to him, she couldn't. Instead, she chooses to stand with her back against the door, and trawl out all her usual protestations and denials, watching as he slumps in his chair; watching but refusing to see.

"Like I said Harry, I'm in control."

They both know that's not the same as not having a problem.

"Okay Ros, okay." Harry sighs, unable to keep the tired defeat from his voice. "When is this going to end? When are you going to stop?"

Ros finds herself surprised when her voice catches, and a stray, forgotten tear rolls down her cheek.

"I'll stop tomorrow."

"Of course Rosalind, of course you will."

He doesn't believe her.

He shouldn't; she's said the same words time and time before.

She knows it's true, but she'll deny how she knows such a fact.

She denies how she knows she'll stop.

* * *

Ros bumps into Jo outside; she hasn't given up smoking yet.

"You going somewhere?"

"Asset." Ros lies with ease. Then again, she isn't sure if she is lying; the person she's meeting is an asset to her, and will provide great assistance in what she has to do.

"I hope it goes well."

_No, you don't. It'll only make you feel guilty later._

Ros realises that this is probably the last memory the girl will have of her; she wants to make it a good one. So that in the months to come, Jo will look back and feel no guilt or anger, just a quiet acceptance that sometimes, these terrible things will happen and that there is nothing she can do to stop them.

"So do I. I'm sorry that we don't get much time to talk."

"It's understandable."

"You're a strong woman, Jo. Adam would be proud."

She's pleased to see a smile grace the young woman's features as she walks away.

After a quick change of clothes she heads out again; she doesn't want them to follow her, not this time. The exchange is quick and before she knows it, she's walking the streets of London with a bag of her ever-faithful brown powder in the left-hand pocket of her coat, a coat which now dwarfs her fragile, waif-like frame.

She goes to church on her way back home.

One last chance.

_Save me if you dare._

She walks home pleased and satisfied with the fact that nothing ever changes.

If she wanted to be dead, she'd be dead.

And she does.

Ros can't deny that.

* * *

_Ros is vaguely aware of the pair of fingers that are repeatedly ramming themselves down her throat, but it takes her several moments to realise what they are trying to do. They are trying to save her, the pleading voice and fingers are trying to save her. 'Please,' she begs, 'please just let me have this. This one moment where everything goes right and I get what I want. Please. Don't save me. Please. Understand. Please. It's okay, you can't save me. It's not your fault; I can't be saved. Please. Just stop. Please. Just make it go away.'_

_The fingers seem to hear._

_The voice seems to understand._

_And then?_

_Then there is nothing. _


	4. Act IV: Action

The walk home takes far longer than necessary, but Ros thinks she deserves to see London properly if it's to be for the last time. It's a beautiful city in her eyes; perhaps because it has been near razed to the ground twice, yet it still managed to rebuild itself - a symbol of strength. For once, she allows herself to remember; every last op, meeting, argument, liaison, and revelation she had in this wonderful place. She remembers the charred corpse that wasn't Zaf, and the charred corpse that was Adam. She remembers the tunnels, and the river which almost killed her. And strangely she remembers her last conflict with Connie.

Connie, the only other person besides Harry and Lucas, who knew the full extent of her affliction. Ros remembers being livid at finding Connie in that alleyway, she felt betrayed that they would broadcast her personal problems to all and sundry, and only becoming subdued when Connie explained that she worked it out all by herself. She told her quite sincerely that they weren't so different; if Ros hated her, then she hated herself. Besides, what did Ros think she did when the service first cast her aside? Knit?

Ros laughs at the memory, and realises that it's the first time she's laughed properly in nearly a year.

It feels good.

She feels good.

And any doubts she had about this being the right thing to do simply fly out of her head.

She has a purpose now.

It makes her happy.

And even though she is about to perform one of the most reckless acts she can possibly do, her movements are sure, fluid, and concise.

She sits serenely on her park bench and runs through the programme of events that is about to unfold with a trace of a smile on her lips.

* * *

She runs through her normal routine when she enters her modest and sterile flat. There are half-packed boxes and books everywhere (she was trying to save them the trouble but found that she just couldn't be bothered with such trivial things. Hopefully, they'll sell it all anyway, just like they did with her other things the first time she 'died'.), forcing Ros to make her own path from the front door to the living room. She chucks her coat to one side and turns her burglar alarm off. Once she has finished what she has done nearly every day for the past six months of her life; she rips apart her kitchen. She doesn't like this one either, and finds that reading has become an altogether too difficult pastime for her now. They were never good enough reasons for her life in the first place; Juliet recognised that.

Ros decides to do it in the bathroom. She doesn't want to 'pass away' in a bed like her mother. She doesn't deserve comfort or euphemisms. She takes her time preparing her final hit; it has to be perfect, everything needs to be perfect again. She's just finishing ensuring there are no air bubbles in the syringe when the phone rings. It's Harry.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour yesterday."

_Yesterday?_

The clock tells her that it's one in the morning. Ros didn't realise her stroll around London had taken so long; time just seems to have stopped for her.

"It's okay, Harry."

"No, it isn't. I should've trusted you. I should've believed you when you said you'd stop."

"I promised you, Harry. It's all ending today." Her voice almost sounds hopeful. Ros holds back a sigh as she slides the needle-point into her flesh.

Ros knows there and then that she doesn't care why she's doing it, or if it's for the right reason, as long as it gives her the respite she so desperately needs.

"I know it's going to be tough on you Ros, but you can do it. We're all here for you."

"I know. Goodbye Harry."

Then she depresses the plunger.

The effects of the overdose are near instantaneous, and she can feel her legs going from underneath her, when her phone rings for the second time. It is instinct that makes her futilely reach for her mobile, clinging to the porcelain basin for strength. Her parents did bring her up to be polite after all. She knows she won't answer the phone. She knows she won't answer another phone ever again, and for a fleeting moment, she panics. It's like she is in the Thames Barrier and drowning all over again. And then Adam's holding her face and telling her that everything is going to be alright. So Ros lets go, and as her head hits the tiled floor, she feels no pain; just calm acceptance.

'This has to happen,' she tells herself.

This had to happen.

* * *

Harry is on the phone to Lucas as soon as he goes through to her voicemail. She's done something stupid, he knows she has.

"Lucas?"

"I'm on my way there now." They both know what they're talking about. The urgent tone in their voices tells them all they need to know.

Connie is watching from the door to the office.

"You know Jo is with him, don't you?"

"It can't be helped." Harry sighs.

"She might not show it, but she idolises the woman."

"Then she'll listen when Ros talks to her about what happened."

"Harry, you know Ros isn't going to talk. She isn't going to do anything ever again."

"Don't, Connie."

"Alright Harry, let's suppose you save her. You defy all the odds, and you save her. You think she's not just going to try again?"

"We'll get her help; she'll have no choice this time."

"If you save her, she'll view it as a failure. Have you ever known Rosalind Myers to tolerate failure?"

Harry thinks back to how hard she was on herself after the triggers were successfully delivered to Iran.

"She was a different person back then." Harry whispers softly. He finds it hard to believe that 'back then' was barely a year ago.

"No Harry, she wasn't. Despite everything; despite the pain, and the grief, and the drugs, she's still the same Ros Myers. She thinks so too."

* * *

As soon as Lucas disconnects the call, he's sprinting out of the building and to the car. Jo automatically knows something has gone badly wrong when Lucas slams his foot on the accelerator before he's barely shut his own door.

"Did the meet go wrong? Are we being tailed?"

"No."

"Then what's happened?"

"Ros. Ros is in trouble and we need to get to her."

"Is this about her meeting with an asset?"

"She didn't have any meetings scheduled."

Jo is suddenly plagued with visions of her own abduction from her flat, from her home.

"Is it-"

"No," he cuts in softly, "it's not them. But she is in trouble."

"What kind?"

"Jo-"

"Don't, Lucas. I've been through too much for you to start patronising me now."

Jo is surprised at the strength in her own voice and remembers Ros's words from earlier.

"You're right. Ros is in trouble because she's probably taken a heroin overdose."

Jo has no time to absorb his words as they screech to a halt outside an apartment building, and sprint up several flights of stairs to Ros's flat.

She's blue.

She's still.

She's not Ros.

She can't be Ros.

Lucas crouches down and begins to check her pulse and airway.

"Is she going to be okay?" Jo asks, eyes brimming with tears.

"She's not breathing. Call an ambulance." Is Lucas's sole answer as he hastily removes his jacket and tenderly holds Ros's head to one side. He takes a deep breath before forcing his fingers down the blonde's throat until she gags, retches, and finally vomits.

He repeats the action again.

"What are you doing? You're making it worse!" Jo shrieks in horror.

"I'm not Jo, I'm not. She's choked on her own vomit; it's blocking her airway and starving her of oxygen. I've got to get it all up. Don't worry Jo, I used to have to do this when I was in Russia. I know what I'm doing."

Jo steps back and watches with silent tears as Lucas repeatedly rams his fingers into Ros's mouth, bringing up a mixture of vomit, stomach fluid, and blood. Jo eyes him warily when he pulls back, but doesn't start chest compressions.

"Why have you stopped? Why aren't you doing CPR?"

A tiny shake of the head tells her an answer she does not want to hear.

"No!" she screams. "You don't get to stop. She's not vomiting anymore! Her airway's clear!"

Lucas holds her back from where Ros is lying motionless; his grip is gentle, firm, and sure.

"No it isn't, Jo. Ros stopped throwing up because she lost her gag reflex."

"You can't just give up." she breathes. "She deserves more than that. The paramedics-"

"They'll take care of her. Jo, even if I did do CPR until they took over, the heroin's probably poisoned her system."

"They can pump her stomach."

"The damage is probably irreparable by now, from both the heroin and the oxygen starvation. I'm sorry Jo, I'm so sorry. There's nothing I can do; I can't save her."

Jo takes a deep, shuddering gasp, and wipes the tears from her eyes before cleaning up the vomit and blood by Ros's head, and round her mouth. She draws Ros into her lap and gasps at how frail and light the woman has become.

"Jo..."

"We should try and give her some dignity at least. She deserves that."

"Jo..."

"You should call Harry. He needs to know."

"Jo-"

"I'll be fine, Lucas. I'll wait here until the paramedics come. She shouldn't be alone; she deserves that. She understood; and she was worth so much more than this. She was worth more, Lucas."

Lucas says nothing as he withdraws himself from the intimate scene before his eyes, and closes the door behind him.

* * *

They've been sitting in silence for nearly half an hour, both knowing that neither has any words of comfort to bring the other.

"Harry," Connie says sincerely as she opens the door to leave, "just remember that it isn't your fault. You weren't meant to win this fight, you just weren't meant to win."

The phone rings.

"Harry Pearce speaking."

Connie watches through the glass panel of his office as he receives the bad news.

She watches as his face crumples.

Then she stops watching.

The world has already moved on.

And someone has to tell Malcolm and Ben.

* * *

Harry stands in silence as they pull the white sheet back across her face.

It's an unnecessary formality, but it has to be done.

Bureaucracy.

Ros always did hate it.

"I suppose we should inform her family."

"That won't be necessary. Malcolm's already dealt with that."

"Really?" Lucas is impressed with his efficiency.

"A year ago, to be precise."

"You mean she didn't tell her family?"

"Apparently, Ros thought it best for all concerned if she were dead."

"My God."

"As callous and unfeeling as she seems - seemed, Ros always did put others before her in her own twisted way." Harry muses before wearily walking away.

Lucas hangs back and pulls the sheet back one last time, committing to his honed photographic memory, her pale lifeless features. Despite everything, she still looks regal. Jo doesn't have to worry; she still kept her dignity.

Lucas carefully rearranges the shroud.

He doesn't agree with Harry.

Lucas thinks that this time, Ros put herself first for once. In her own twisted way.

He sincerely hopes it made her happy.


	5. Act V: Aftermath

_**This is dedicated to the ever fabulous Juliet Delta, whose visual portrayal of the last chapter actually made me cry. It's such a shame that this has come to an end, I did so enjoy writing it. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have.**_

* * *

**_But she and Death, acquainted,_**

**_Meet tranquilly as friends,_**

**_Salute and pass without a hint --_**

**_And there the matter ends._**

* * *

Jo holds the small plastic rectangle in her fist for several minutes, before she can bring herself to slide it into the player. She just buried a woman who might've been her friend. And all she could think of as she read her speech, was how blue Ros had looked. Not pale, but _blue_. It was as if she weren't real; like some child had replaced her with what they perceived a dead body would look like.

Six was there.

And Jo was shocked to hear about how many people she had saved in the field; how often she had been prepared to sacrifice her own life for another's.

But the Service still broke her in the end.

The thought of Ros Myers dead and broken, terrifies Jo.

The young woman shakes her head sadly, and presses play.

* * *

_Hello, Joanna. I always wished we had talked more. Hopefully you will look back on this as a final conversation, and not simply a cassette in a tape player. The last thing I ever told you was that you were a strong woman and Adam would be proud. I just wanted you to know that I am proud of you too. You have the potential to become a formidable officer Miss Portman. _

_People will start talking, and you may hear many stories about my time at Vauxhall Cross. Stories that will make you wonder why I wasn't given a one-way ticket to Tring. I want you to ignore them. They are not the reason why you are listening to a simple recording of my voice. And even if they are, you are not Rosalind Myers. You never were, and you never will be. That doesn't make you weak, just simply a different, beautiful, unique person. _

_I see now that I have been selfish in my relationship with you. I should've mentored you better and prepared you for the horrors that sometimes await us in this line of work. But I wasn't, and I certainly won't be now. You may feel as if you are on your own Jo, but you're not, and I believe with Section D by your side, you never will be. Remember that Adam spent his last hours on this earth bringing comfort to you, remember the relief my truth brought you, remember how Zaf made you laugh. _

_Remember, because one day, a young naive spook will need your comfort, your truth, your laughter. You will probably lose so much more in the years to come, but you cannot let that fact break you now. Nor can you believe that I did what I did because I was broken, because I wasn't. I had problem, and I found a solution. You may not agree it was the right one, but you're not me._

_That's a good thing; never forget that._

* * *

Lucas plays his tape at night.

He does not play it because it alleviates his insomnia.

On the contrary, it only adds to the cacophony of demons in his head.

But at least his fingers no longer feel as if they are slipping down Ros's dying throat with pure abandon.

* * *

_Lucas._

_The man who I fear knew me better than I knew myself. I shall assume that it was you who found me, and you who ensured my DNR was respected. You are a noble man Lucas, and I hope Russia has not tainted you for long. I am grateful for the fact that you never asked about my father, nor commented on the circumstances that led to my exile in Moscow. You gave me a clean slate, and I want to ensure you that I truly did the best I could do. But sometimes the best just isn't good enough._

_That isn't a failing on your behalf, or mine; that's just the way life works sometimes._

_I'm doing this recording because I wanted to have the opportunity to tell you; I finally let go of my past. I hope one day you will be able to do the same._

_I hope you find a wife you loves more that Elizabeta ever could._

_I hope you have a family that you can be proud of._

_But most of all, I hope you find your faith in humanity again._

_Because you deserve more than this._

_You're worth more._

_I understand that this...speech is short, but what I really want to say, I don't have to._

_You already know._

* * *

Malcolm stands before the rows of fellow officers and colleagues, and wonders how many other friends is going to bury before his own time comes. He did not read at her last funeral. He feared he would give the game away.

He reads today.

Because today, today is not a game.

Malcolm chooses to listen to his tape in the car, on the way home from the wake.

He wants to hear her assuring confident voice once more.

He wants to know...

He just wants to know.

* * *

_Malcolm, you were my rock even if you didn't know. The only thing that kept me going in Russia, was knowing that you were still on the Grid. The idea that if you were still there, then coming back wouldn't be so terrible. With you and Harry by my side, I could still belong. I believe the Dead have special disposition to be indiscreet, so that is what I shall be now._

_The only time I felt ashamed whilst using, was when I thought of you. How gentle and considerate you were when inserting my various listening and tracking devices. And the time you took to help me find ways of coping with my fear._

_You taught me not to be scared._

_I drew inspiration from you when I went back to my certain death to save Harry._

_And I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry for the actions of my father, which lost you a friend._

_And although I'm sorry you've lost another now, I cannot be sorry for what I did. I cannot be sorry that when I asked, Death kindly stopped for me._

_Years from now, you will look back and know that I was right. You may not know why, but you will know all the same. _

_And in our world, knowing is all that matters._

* * *

Qualtrough is telling her that Harry's file is ready, and she nods, forgetting the fact that he is a hundred miles away and on the other side of the phone.

Her absently mindedly fiddles with the small cassette in her lap.

She can't help but wonder what Ros has to say to her.

She has a feeling it will be morbid.

At least it will be the truth.

* * *

_You always said that you and I were one and the same; I fear that you are right._

_And if that is the case, then I'm afraid that you had to endure you own death along with mine. I hope you are not disappointed in me, because that would be the waste of a strong heart on such a weak emotion. And it would not matter anyway; I stand on the brink of Death whilst openly high, and can find no shame nor disappointment residing in this room with me. Because who I am at this moment, and who I was before my 'death' are one and the same. I have never changed; just circumstance. But then, you already knew that. I suspect you knew I had been turned that very day I walked onto the Grid after my initiation. And I wanted you to know that I spent many a night wondering why you let me continue down that path unhindered. I even went so far to think that you were a fellow traitor, but you seem to have a noble wisdom in you that I could never hope to achieve. You and I may do the the wrong things for the right reasons, but this was not wrong, not this time. _

_If for some unconceivable reason, you do turn traitor, and least you will know how your story will end._

_In death._

_Nothing more, nothing less._

_And Connie, when the time comes for you to redeem yourself, to perish on account of your own twisted sense of duty and loyalty, make sure you're doing something you love._

_Make sure it is of your own choosing._

_And if all else fails, at least make sure you get some gin._

* * *

Ben is angry.

Ben doesn't understand why people are being so understanding when in reality, their leader was nothing but a junkie.

He doesn't understand.

But then he presses play.

She tells him that doesn't matter.

* * *

_I will not explain my actions to you Ben. You still see the world in black and white, when it clearly isn't._

_It's not even grey._

_But I'm sure Jo's already told you that._

_Instead, I am going to teach you a lesson; a very painful one._

_You are too young for all this._

_And for that reason, you're going to die and your family, and the world shall lose a beautiful young man._

_But there is no need to be afraid. Like I told you before, everyone you've met and everyone you will meet, has to die._

_I want to teach you how to die with dignity. I can almost hear you snort, but ask Lucas and Jo if I lost my dignity; hopefully, they will tell you 'no'._

_The only way to die with dignity is to accept it wholly and unconditionally. If you die at the hand of a friend, accept it graciously and without fight. _

_If it is bloody, remember that as your friend, they tried to find an easier method than that._

_Accept that they were the better player, because the next day, you will still be dead and your friend will still be your murderer. That will never change._

_I've always shared the opinion that being dignified in one's death was more important that being respectable. Perhaps that is because I never got the chance to discover what 'respectable' actually was. Chances are, neither will you._

_I can see you're already coming up with a rebuttal, bringing up my counts of treason, maybe. It doesn't bother me. _

_I just want you to know that by the time you discover what 'respectable' is, it will be too late. _

_Trust me when I say that you will find more comfort and worth in 'dignity'._

* * *

It is a year before Harry can bring himself to listen to his tape.

A part of him is scared of what he'll hear. He doesn't want to hear her plead for comfort, or safety.

He feels he could've saved her; pulled her back from the edge.

It pains him to know that he was probably on the phone to her as she was committing suicide. It pains him to know that all his words of support and reassurance couldn't prevent her from committing such a desperate act of escape.

He thinks he could've saved her.

Harry sits on the bench where they scattered her ashes, and listens as her voice seems to fill the air.

* * *

_It wasn't your fault, Harry. It was never your fault. If you are to believe anything that has come out of my mouth in the years that I have known you, believe that. You have been like a father to me these past few years._

_The father I never had, and should've demanded._

_You allowed me to be myself. It is up to you whether that is a good thing._

_It's funny, but I almost can't bring myself to speak to you._

_I do not want you to hear me sounding so weak. You should not have to hear my tearful voice again. I just wanted to apologise._

_If I lied to you between this recording and my death; I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry for my actions surrounding the Ruth Evershed affair. I hope one day you will be able to tell her that for me._

_And I'm sorry that what I'm about to do will hurt you. I'd give anything for that not to be the inevitable consequence._

_I am drowning, Harry._

_I am drowning, and my death is my only life-ring._

_Tell them to remember me, Harry._

_Tell them to remember all the times I've met with Death and walked away._

_Tell them this is just the same, except I've chosen a different path now._

_Finally, I wanted to say good bye; properly._

_Good bye, Sir Harry; our knight in shining armour._

_You know better than anyone that you cannot be victorious in all your battles._

_Sometimes, you have to stand back and watch us drown, you just have to._

_Sometimes, we are simply beyond reach._

* * *


End file.
